Blackwater Islands the man with the umbrella

one moment had been sun and gulls and breeze. voices chanting loud above one another. celebrations of some sort.

the next was a gap.

then there was the here and now. washed ashore and unable to tell up from down. disoriented, slick with saltwater. and the ocean still nipped at her toes as the rolling waves reached inland, as if they might take her back.

this she refused with a groan, raised herself upright. poorly blinked herself back into some minor semblance of life.

only to be greeted with the dark.

night had fallen some time ago.

the sea, like the void, brings them all manner of unusual things.

as the velveteen colors of night expand greedily, swallowing the last defiant colors of the smoldering day the dreadfather walks their usual patrol.

the shores are empty with the life of the druids, their shadowchildren and their nightwife: but the dreadfather remains even as all others drifted off. this is where she had chosen to lay her roots and they believe with the fierce solidity of a thousand lifetimes it was where she would return.

where, eventually, all the druids would return.

they pause, having spent most of the patrol nosing through the frothing waves and lingering seafoam, the moon painting a shape in the sands as canine in nature. cautiously, the dreadfather approaches with a low chuff noting that the stranger is ( at the very least ) alive, having caught the motions of them pushing themselves upright.

she almost missed him.

between the water in her ears giving a case of vertigo and the night wrapped around him like a shawl. but there was something familiar when she saw him.

such vibrant eyes.

she carried her own pair, tucked neatly into her narrow face. she could convince herself this was kin, if she looked too long. a man on the coast, both monochrome and bright eyed.

his scars.

she wondered if she had found a boss away from home.

she chuffed back, low and cautious, throat raw from the saltwater of her venture.

bright and sea eyed the stranger looks as if she had seen better days, as if the sea had battered her 'round without mercy. but she was alive and to the dreadfather, that was something.

the sea could snuff out life so very easily. the void had not sought to claim her and as she was spat upon their shores it seems only right that they be tasked with helping her ...even if their reasons are purely selfish.

the woman — thistle cloud — close to the void as she had been, had been their first companion since the druids had dispersed. slowly, at first and then gone all together.

the stranger chuffs back at them and they approach with a body language that shows they mean no harm but that this island is theirs and they are in charge here. can you walk? the dreadfather rumbles their question, trying to deduce best where to direct her: fresh water, food caches or what was left of medicinal stores. are you injured?

his words rumbled and churned like the depths of the sea.

in her heart she holds him as kin, for now. there is no reason to not look at him as such, she very well could have been spat back home on familiar shores and just not known it yet. the dark hid very much from her in these times.

whoever he is, kin or not, this is his island — and while she would not grovel at his feet, she moved with the respect of a subordinate.

do you have herbs?

perhaps he had a healer tucked away inland or a personal stash she might rummage through.

she imagined anything might come with a price.

though her response is not necessarily a direct answer to their questions, it suffices. they do not feel the personal need to push for specifics. they are not a healer but they knew that several druids had been and they assume that there might be something left, or at the very least salvagable of what stores the healing druids had managed to gather.

come. they command, gesturing with their scarred muzzle for her to follow. i will take you to where the healing druids kept their medicines. they explain. i do not know what is left. for all they knew, the healing druids had taken what they could with them ...but perhaps luck was on her side and they didn't.

the dreadfather leads her to a cavern, pushing past the vines. they linger in the mouth, gesturing for her to go in though they would not follow. the healing druids kept their stores in here.

they followed, slunk behind the figure.

he spoke of healing and druids. she felt the tether to him a bit tighter, but did not speak on it. what could would it do her? she just needed to get her things together, return home to prove herself chieftain and lead her rightful group.

only as they plucked through the island, she realized this was not at all the coast of home.

thank you, she mumbled her respects with a bow of her head as she slunk into the caves.

she picked through and there was little left that was useable. but she found something familiar for the aches of the sea in her bones and another thing that she recalled for infections. taken more for cautionary inclination rather than any immediate need.

she snagged another thing for the pain, aware the plant might daze her but seeking them all the same.

if he had not wanted anything touched, he had not specified as such.

she would emerge with another grateful bow to him.

the price?

they watch: a silent, stony sentry as she takes what she needs from the healing druids' left stashes. they do not move to interrupt nor keep her from taking what she wishes. the medicines would do nothing for them but rot. they are not a healer; never had been their role and never would be.

they'd rather take life than save it. a cold truth.

they move aside at the sound of her approach, allowing her exit from the cavern. seaglass gaze skims the medicines she has with her idly; soaking up her small bow.

the price?

a twitch of their tail is given, a contemplative breath following. but they know immediately what they want. the skull of your first kill on the full moon. a simple request, they feel. the full moon is when the veil between this realm and that of the void is thin ...and magick of jus drein, jus daun paid will be strong.

his ask was odd.

not impossible, not very hard either.

she regarded him with a respectful nod, dipping her body in doing so too. a full show of respect and submission to the barracuda man who claimed this island. whatever his wishes were for a skull from her, were not hers to know.

it will be so.

if this was all he asked, she would rid herself of his fur on his behalf. unwilling to be a burden upon anyone and their claim.

she accepts their terms.

a low rumble of contentment is given; like a far off storm brewing within their chest.

good, the dreadfather drawls, contemplating where they should meet with her when the time comes. they are silent for a beat longer, their decision made for them by the soft tug in their chest and by the hazy image of their memory as it claws it's way to the surface of their mind.

meet me on the small island on the most northeast shore, closest to ankyra sound. they gesture with their muzzle to the island in question: a small island jutting from the sea like the jagged tooth of some decayed titan. there, i will wait for you.

in the days that pass in the meantime, they will prepare: already making the mental list of feathers and rocks and other bits and pieces they will need.